


Black sails on the Dirac Sea

by IreneLiebe



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Multi, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27264421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneLiebe/pseuds/IreneLiebe
Summary: Inspired by Ripples on the Dirac Sea, Geoffrey Landis, 1990. And all time travel fictions.Brief: Five encounters of Mittermeyer and Reuenthal. Or, Tristan across the Dirac Sea, with Isolde who raised the black sails.BGM：Elizabeth - Ashram
Relationships: Wolfgang Mittermeyer & Oskar von Reuenthal
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Black sails on the Dirac Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [【银英/双璧】狄拉克海上的黑帆](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623918) by [IreneLiebe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneLiebe/pseuds/IreneLiebe). 



> Translated by DeepL. No betas yet, so forgive the possible mistakes (a lot many).

"Post Phezzan" bar, Iserlohn Fortress, 480 I.C.

No one knew when the next war would start. So it was customary for junior officers to celebrate the short gaps between wars, stall the sleepy nights with beer and sex, and save up talk for the long journey.

21-year-old Lieutenant Wolfgang Mittermeyer had a "bright future" that his superiors praised and a sweet girlfriend. Although he was ashamed to admit that he was also smitten by Evangelin, every time he pulled out his wallet to pay the bill, the unintentionally revealing picture of a young girl had already got him out of "midnight activities".

When he left the bar, the evening was in a wonderful balance. Not sooner than you'd like, not later than you'd like to sap your will and fall into a dangerous malaise. Mittermeyer slung his uniform around his wrist and pushed open the back door of the bar, intending to take a short path.

To his surprise, the alleyway to the back door was surrounded by a group of people. A group of cops, to be precise.

The lead policeman waved over two doctor-looking men lifting a stretcher, one of whom bent down to hold something in the corner. The flashlight beam quickly hit the corner, and the one who bent over turned his head and shouted back, then his partner let go of the stretcher and came to help. They worked together to hold that in the corner and onto the stretcher.

As the flashlight beam shifted, Mittermeyer figured out that it was a person they were carrying on the stretcher - a man, or even a corpse.

For there was too much blood there.

Dragged from the corner to the stretcher, half a step away, a small pool of blood had accumulated on the floor. The man on the stretcher had an overly tall body, so much so that the standard length stretcher could not accommodate his legs. It seemed the man was wearing military pants, with blood running down his uniform and onto his boots, soaking from knees down.

Mittermeyer wondered if the man was wearing an Imperial Army uniform - quite similar, but he could tell the difference. The man's upper body was shielded from the doctors, who seemed to do some treatment to his chest, possibly stopping the bleeding. Or simply cleaning the wound, with no hope of a cure.

Mittermeyer stood in the alleyway for long, watching doctors dealing with the body in the back of the bar. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Too many foolish and impulsive young men were eager to put the final touches on their lives with a duel and it could have been another tragic result of mindlessness. It seemed that the doctors thought so, too. Thus they didn't use any advanced life support facilities. No defibrillators, nor ventilators. They just haphazardly took out a flashlight and shone it at the man's pupils.

The cop also peered over, trying to determine the death. But he suddenly shuddered, then looked away and spat with disgust. Mittermeyer didn't hear what he cursed. Instinctively, he turned away from the dark alley and walked back to the back door of the "Post Phezzan" bar.

" Mittermeyer!" His fellow officers called him. It was half amusement, half banter. "Just in time. The show is about to begin!"

Mittermeyer was about to say he was just going to walk across the bar and leave through the front door. But apparently the bar had descended into an orgy, strangling no one to exit.

"For a woman." His colleague explained with a flourish, "Look, that’s Reuenthal."

Mittermeyer looked up. The man at the center of the chaos turned just in time, looking like an evil planet collapsing into a black hole, drawing all unkindness around him. Mittermeyer came across his eyes. Blue and black pupils lingered on his face for a second, then smoothly looked away.

That was the first time Mittermeyer met Reuenthal.

  
Not long after, they became friends.

At first, it was surprising that Reuenthal could make friends. Later, Mittermeyer amazed everyone who knew him. Before he met Reuenthal, Mittermeyer's mellow, honey-like smile made him the center of attention at all gatherings, even though he never thought he would be. But since they had formed a puzzling friendship, Mittermeyer unintentionally allocated all his free time to a guy with a reputation for "women and fights". They spent long hours together, drinking, playing cards, betting at billiards, fighting at the back door of the "Post Fraser" bar - usually to teach unsavoury noblemen a lesson, and occasionally fighting with each other due to Reuenthal's anachronistic sneer.

"Reuenthal is my friend." Colonel Mittermeyer always said that. So when Reuenthal sneeringly declined Mittermeyer's invitation to be the best man, all those jealous of the friendship told Mittermeyer that Colonel Reuenthal did not regard you as an equal friend.

"Your words are too arbitrary," Mittermeyer said, frowning, "Reuenthal has his reason. And I am in no way show partiality for him."

Deep down, Mittermeyer even felt sorry for Reuenthal: he knew that his friend could never have a normal family due to his early childhood experiences. Thus, when he himself attained worldly happiness, he regretted the friend's doomed emotional absence.

So, when Reuenthal appeared briefly at the wedding, knelt down to give the bride a kiss on her right hand, and then turned away, Mittermeyer was heartily happy for Reuenthal.

The post-wedding feast continued into the evening. Mittermeyer had drunk too much of the overly sweet champagne and his stomach was filled with delicate bubbles. He kissed his new wife on the cheek and fled to the terrace behind the banquet hall for "a breath of air".

Just a pre-wedding panic every man has, he reassured himself.

Mittermeyer took several deep breaths. When he finally made his way back to the banquet, there was a familiar voice behind him.

"Mittermeyer."

Reuenthal stood behind him.

"Reuenthal! I thought you wouldn't come. You said you would never squeeze in among my relatives - that was rude, I must say."

Reuenthal smiled at him. He looked weary, but still sharp as a sword. "I broke my word." He replied briefly.

Mittermeyer blinked. "It's okay. I'm glad you're here. You left so quickly this afternoon that I haven't had time to introduce you to Avon. She kept asking me after the wedding, 'Who's your handsome friend, honey?' It's a good thing she didn't ask too many times, or I would have been jealous."

Speaking of his new wife, Mittermeyer was so caught up in her joy that she forgot about Reuenthal's extraordinary silence.

"Oh." He paused, scratching his ears in embarrassment, "Let's talk back in the hall. It's too cold here."

"Right here." Reuenthal suddenly grabbed his hand and said, almost urgently, "Mittermeyer, let's talk right here."

"Uh, okay. But Eva is waiting for me--"

"It won’t take up too much time," Reuenthal said. He answered with so much conviction that Mittermeyer had no reason to refuse.

They stepped outside an open window, and by the light, Mittermeyer saw that Reuenthal was wearing a somewhat wrinkled white shirt. "Even though it's a dinner party, you should have dressed up nicely like you were this afternoon!" He blamed his friend with displeasure.

Reuenthal was silent for a while. Then he whispered, "I'm sorry. This is the best dress I could find ......."

Mittermeyer shrugged his shoulders. He was quickly drawn to what was in Reuenthal's right hand. "You folded a ship with a napkin?"

Reuenthal looked down at the white boat. "Made it while waiting for you."

Mittermeyer said, "Well, you show me how to make it, and I'll forgive you for stealing the napkin from my wedding feast." He trailed off, not realizing that he was being overly childish.

Reuenthal said, "...... Okay."

He unwrapped the napkin and, by the candlelight from the window, carefully taught Mittermeyer how to fold a small boat out of a square napkin. His fingers were long and nimble, which reminded Mittermeyer that Reuenthal could play the piano and violin.

"That's it," Reuenthal said, "will you try?"

Mittermeyer came back to his senses - the champagne made him lose some of his concentration and miss several steps. He folded uneventfully, but was still in high spirits: "I can make it for Eva."

He didn't see the expression on Reuenthal's face. Mittermeyer's head was down, trying to fight with the napkins, the light illuminating his honey-colored hair like sunshine in the Odin countryside, freshly baked cakes and all the good things in the world.

"Whew - finished! "Mittermeyer held the boat in the palm of his hand, suddenly realizing something was wrong, "Why is it black?"

Reuenthal said, "You forgot to turn inside out."

Mittermeyer sighed in frustration. He was about to re-fold it, but Reuenthal stopped his hand. "Let it be so."

Mittermeyer placed the boat with the black sails on the ledge. The terrace was indeed cold as the night wind passed through. Mittermeyer shrugged, "I have to get back. The groom can't be late, or Eva will complain about me."

"Mittermeyer." Reuenthal suddenly took Mittermeyer's shoulders. His voice actually trembled, should he blame the weather or emotion? Mittermeyer looked up in confusion as Reuenthal brought him to his feet and held out his arms to him.

"Reuen-"

"I'm sorry," Reuenthal said, his voice a pain like no other. He wasn't someone whose emotions poured outward, and only alcohol could make him let out a few snickers, but right now he didn't smell like alcohol. If he had to, Reuenthal smelled of smoke, as if he had been in a battlefield a moment before.

Mittermeyer hesitantly reached out and hugged him back. "It's okay, Reuenthal."

The whole body of the man he was holding was trembling. It was a long time before Rojentar relaxed his embrace, his voice tending to break. "You don't know what I'm apologizing for, Mittermeyer."

"Uh ......" the man he was talking to looked away a little embarrassed. But soon Mittermeyer said in his usual light tone, "It's okay, Reuenthal, I know you get into the poet's mood from time to time. But ...... it's okay. Whatever you have done, I forgive you."

Reuenthal seemed to let out a sob. This was too strange. But his face was still pale, not tinged with the redness that comes with emotional excitement. "Thank you." He said, and then he pushed Mittermeyer out of the way, his voice returning to normal when he spoke again, "Go back, Mittermeyer. It's not a good habit to be late."

Mittermeyer patted him on the back before releasing the embrace and walking back to the door of the banquet hall. As he was in the doorway he said to Reuenthal l, "Won't you come over? It's neither a good habit to leave first."

Reuenthal shook his head. He stood like a marble statue in the evening wind, his forehead all cold and white. "Mittermeyer!"

Mittermeyer turned around one last time.

Reuenthal asked, "White or black sails?"

Mittermeyer didn't understand. When he regained consciousness, Reuenthal had disappeared like a ghost. Only a small, napkin-folded sailboat lay quietly on the windowsill.

The boat was black-sailed.

The next time he met the folded boat, unfortunately, was after Reuenthal rescued him from prison.

Admiral Müsel and his red-haired friend expressed their concern to Mittermeyer, but Mittermeyer still declined the offer to the Duke's residence for rest. Reuenthal approved of his decision and escorted him back to his apartment. Mittermeyer went upstairs, pushed open the window, and waved to Reuenthal waiting downstairs. His tall, thin friend, wrapped in a trench coat, looked up at him in the late afternoon, then left.

Waving Reuenthal away, Mittermeyer finally shed all his strength and collapsed on the bed. He hadn't even bothered to change out of his uniform, as the interrogation had been a long ordeal for both mind and body.

He couldn't wait to sink into sleep. In the latter part of the night, he began to run a fever.

Mittermeyer wanted water, his lips were so chapped that he could lick the oozing droplets of blood. But he was too tired he to lift his arms, let alone get himself some water.

He was going to burn himself to death. But the expected heat didn't come, instead a water-soaked towel was placed over his forehead.

Mittermeyer opened his eyes. There was no light on in the room, and it took him a great deal of effort to recognize the figure beside the bed, "...... Reuenthal?"

His friend moved the towel on his forehead away silently, which was already warm from the heat of his forehead. Reuenthal's fingers traced across Mittermeyer's eyebrows and cheekbones, then hesitantly withdrew them. "I'll get a new one," Reuenthal said.

Almost on instinct, Mittermeyer reached out and took him by the hand. "Stay, stay with me." He mumbled unconsciously, "Too hot ......"

Reuenthal's wrists trembled violently as he took them by the hand. But he obediently sat back on the edge of the bed and pressed on a lamp.

The dim light was only enough to illuminate the side of his face. Mittermeyer tilted his head and saw that Reuenthal was wearing a white shirt, but of a different style.

As expected of a beauty-loving playboy, Reuenthal was sure to change his shirt.

"Hey, Reuenthal... What are you doing back here? We agreed to meet tomorrow morning at the military headquarters." Mittermeyer muttered.

Reuenthal said, "I was worry about you." His voice was like the late-night tide lapping against the gravel, floating and sinking, faraway and mysterious. Mittermeyer felt Reuenthal's fingers press against his forehead again, as if testing his temperature.

"Just get some sleep. I'm not a woman, neither that delicate." Mittermeyer said. Although he knew he was indeed sick, he would never act to be pitiful.

Reuenthal laughed softly. "Too hot to sleep?" He asked.

The damp stifling heat at the back of his neck did interfere with sleep. Mittermeyer grunted.

Reuenthal said, "Would you like a bedtime story?"

Mittermeyer lifted his eyes and looked at Reuenthal, speaking teasingly, "How did you learn that? Don't tell me you volunteered at a kindergarten."

Reuenthal ruffled a handful of Mittermeyer's hair, "So childish." Then he sat on the edge of Mittermeyer's pillow, letting the other man's head rest on his leg, gently brushing his hair.

"Mittermeyer, I came from the future."

"Uh ...... I didn't know you had the gift of prophecy."

Reuenthal shook his head in all seriousness. "No, I just knew it." His voice was low and soft, neither fast nor slow, the best hypnotic, "We will be marshals. You and me, we're the beginners of a new dynasty."

"What new dynasty?" Mittermeyer's mind was a little foggy.

"A new dynasty ruled by a greater monarch." Reuenthal said. "We'll have our own fleet and officers, and you'll be Commander-in-Chief of the fleet, Mittermeyer."

"Prosit." Mittermeyer said with humor in tone.

Reuenthal insisted, "Trust me. You will be a respectable Marshal, you will have a happy family and true friendships. You will be loved, Mittermeyer."

Mittermeyer retorted, "And you? Tell me about yourself, Reuenthal."

The answered was a long silence. Until sleep defeated the fever and dragged him into the dark, sweet abyss, Mittermeyer felt that Reuenthal turned off light and then leaned in. His lips touched Mittermeyer's forehead, and it was a long time before he moved away.

"I will stay here," Reuenthal said, "I'm always here."

The next day, Mittermeyer opened his eyes to see a glass of water and a small, paper-stacked boat on his nightstand.

He drank the water, pocketed the boat, and reported to the military headquarters as usual.

"Reuenthal, last night-" seeing his friend, Mittermeyer decided to thank Reuenthal properly for taking care of him last night.

But his friend just greeted him in a very normal way: "Did you sleep well last night? How is your health?"

Mittermeyer's fingers grasped boat in his pocket. Reuenthal's performance did not go beyond friend's concern, which made him hesitate to bring up last night's conversation. Perhaps Reuenthal didn't want to bring it up again.

Thinking about it, Mittermeyer scratched her honey-colored hair and smiled, "Quite well, thanks."

When the Lohengramm dynasty was established, himself and Reuenthal named Commander-in-Chief and Minister of the Military Headquarters respectively, Mittermeyer suddenly remembered the prophecy Reuenthal had made to him many nights ago.

"I didn't think you were really a prophet!" Mittermeyer said to Reuenthal.

Reuenthal, however, frowned and asked, "What prophecy?" He didn't dwell on the topic of prophecy, but drained his glass of wine then placed the empty glass back on the table, gracefully supporting his forehead by hand and lifting his jaw, blue-black pupils dilated with drunkenness.

"I should go. Eva is probably asleep, and she can't be left alone." Mittermeyer took his leave of the wine's owner.

Reuenthal said, "Do as you wish."

Mittermeyer walked out of Reuenthal's residence, propped up the collar of his military coat, and took the familiar path home. After passing a certain corner, he almost ran into the person in front of him.

Upon seeing the face of the stranger, Mittermeyer shouted in surprise, "Reuenthal! I thought you were back at home."

Reuenthal said, "That 'Reuenthal' was indeed at home."

Mittermeyer tilted his head in confusion, "But - are there two Reuenthal?"

"No. Mittermeyer, I've got you confused." Reuenthal waved his hand magnanimously, his white shirt rolled up to elbows, wrists looking overly thin in the sharp moonlight, "I'm not Reuenthal, I'm a ghost from the future."

Mittermeyer looked at him for a long moment. Then the honey-haired marshal said, "I think you did drink too much champagne."

"Do you think I'm talking drunk, Mittermeyer?" whispered Reuenthal, "We shall meet again. No, not tomorrow morning, that 'Reuenthal' isn't me ...... wait a little longer, we'll meet again."

"You make it sound like this has already happened. But I guess you do have a knack for prophecy - one night you predicted that we would all become marshals. Now the prophecy has come true." Mittermeyer shrugged, "Anyway, I gotta say that's pretty amazing."

"Is it?" Reuenthal narrowed his eyes. He took on a thoughtful look, after a while he said, "I think what you're talking about should happen in your past, my future."

Mittermeyer tried to understand every word Reuenthal said, but he eventually gave up in frustration: "Wait a minute, Reuenthal ...... you make it sound like we're coming from opposite ends of time. But that's impossible! Since I met you, we've spent almost every day together, you had no chance to play the so-called 'ghost from the future'."

Reuenthal smiled at him, but didn’t explain, "So, think of me as a dream, or whatever. I told you we'd meet again, and when we do, I'll explain it to you."

"Reuenthal!-"

His friend turned sharply on his heels, and when Mittermeyer caught up, all he could see was the empty street.

Afterwards, despite Mittermeyer's attempts to convince himself that what he encountered that night was indeed a nightmare, the words "Reuenthal" said kept repeating in his mind: we will meet again.

So when Mittermeyer finished his "Opera Tour” with the Emperor and was standing in front of the theater, waiting for a taxi, he noticed a silent man standing in front of a large poster.

"Reuenthal!" cried Mittermeyer in surprise, "You should be in Heinesen!".

Reuenthal raised his head and looked at Mittermeyer in silence. By this time, the cab had arrived, and Reuenthal got in before Mittermeyer, who hesitated for a moment and got in as well. Reuenthal entered the address of one of Phezzan's most prestigious restaurants, and explained briefly, "I'm starving."

Mittermeyer said, "You still haven't told me how you came from Heinesen."

Reuenthal looked at him. His blue-black pupils gazed at Mittermeyer, then slowly looked away. Eventually he said, "that 'Reuenthal' is indeed still in Heinesen." He laughed softly, "As you can see, I'm just a ghost."

"'A ghost from the future.'" Mittermeyer picked up on his words.

Reuenthal frowned, then he nodded, "It seems you've already met ‘me’ from the future."

Mittermeyer said, "Okay. Reuenthal, I guess I have to ask why? Last time you spoke of prophecies and ghosts and what-so-ever, and that we'd see each other again. Now I need an explanation."

Reuenthal, however, looked away from the window. "We have arrived. Perhaps the wine could help you understand the story better."

They found a table in corner. Reuenthal ordered the wine. Immediately after the waiter left Mittermeyer asked, "Now can you tell me?" But Reuenthal just lifted the glass and shook it gently, observing the crimson liquid slide gently down the inner wall.

"Mittermeyer," said Reuenthal, "' You cannot step into the same river, twice.'"

"Well, I understand your nature of being a philosopher. But what does that have to do with?"

Reuenthal put down his glass. He smiled meaningfully at Mittermeyer, "But one can step into the same ocean twice."

"You've got me confused." Mittermeyer held his arms.

"The Dirac Sea, an infinitely dense ocean of negative energy particles," Reuenthal said, "Of course, I'll try to simplify, given your physical abilities." He couldn't seem to contain his penchant for sneering, but didn't show it under Mittermeyer's annoyed glare, "You should know that our flagship is equipped with state-of-the-art accelerators. When it reaches a peak speed, the flagship crashes into a ripple in the invisible Dirac Sea. Positrons and negatives collide and annihilate, and thus the Dirac Sea grants me the energy to return to the past. Just like that," Reuenthal shook his glass upwards, a few drops of red wine jumping upwards out of gravity and then falling into the glass, "but it only lends me energy for a short time travel. I can't stay in the past for long, eventually I have to return to the time I am in."

"Wow." Mittermeyer said, "So, you have returned to the past from the future? If I understand correctly, that’s because you've accelerated Tristan to a peak?" He struggled to understand Reuenthal's rambling explanation, "I still can't believe it. If the way back to the past is so simple, then all flagship commanders should flee back to the past before they are defeated to stop themselves from making stupid decisions."

At the words, Reuenthal seemed to shrink a little. He took a sip of his wine, his pale cheekbones tinged with blood. "I don't think they can," Reuenthal said slowly, "Following the law of causation, the past cannot be changed." He smiled hastily, "And the speed required is dangerous. Normally, clear-headed commanders don't make such decisions."

"So, why did you make this decision?" Mittermeyer asked, "You never told me why you went back."

"Oh, the first time was just a coincidence," Reuenthal answered. He seemed avoiding Mittermeyer's probing gaze, "but I found it worked well. So I tried it again."

His index finger tapped the rim of his glass, and he looked thoughtful, "I went back a total of five times."

"Five times!" Mittermeyer couldn't help but yell out, "That is too dangerous!"

"I was in extreme danger then." Reuenthal took another sip of red wine, a mocking smile on his lips, "Going back in time was more like a salvation for me."

"Wait," said Mittermeyer, "five times? How did you know it was five? You said that my encounter with you happened in my past, your future-"

"The next time we met, you told me," Reuenthal answered, "that was the first time I went back in time. It was also the last time you saw me."

"Why are you so sure?" Mittermeyer's fingers gripped the tablecloth and he felt vaguely uneasy, "What happened, Reuenthal? What made you go back again and again?"

"Mittermeyer," Reuenthal didn't answer directly, "I heard you could fold boats out of tablecloths. Make one for me, though the request sounds absurd."

Mittermeyer looked into Reuenthal's eyes until the latter averted his gaze as if burned. "Did the future me tell you that?"

Reuenthal said, "Yes. You may have heard the story of Tristan and Isolde? I noticed the opera on the theater's poster."

Mittermeyer shook his head, "No, the Emperor invited me to see another opera, The Ring of the Nibelungen. What is Tristan and Isolde about? Also, your ship is called Tristan."

"Just a coincidence." Reuenthal said. "Never mind, that's not important. Make me a small boat ...... to satisfy the curiosity of a phantom."

Although Mittermeyer was disgusted by the way Reuenthal called himself a "ghost," he pulled off his napkin and folded a boat.

"Oops." The boat in front of him was black-out and white-in, the black fabric was flipped over on the outside, and Mittermeyer muttered with displeasure, "Every time I forget to turn inside out."

"Black sails." Reuenthal said thoughtfully. "You said you fold wrongly every time. Is that what you mean, Mittermeyer."

His last words were so soft that Mittermeyer couldn't hear them. Mittermeyer said, "Well, it was you who taught me how to fold a napkin boat."

"Yes?" Reuenthal asked carelessly. He looked up at the clock hanging on the wall, then rose with a graceful movement and said to Mittermeyer, "Time is running out. Please excuse me for leaving early."

"You're going back? Back to, uh, 'your future'?" Mittermeyer asked.

Reuenthal smiled at him, "I look forward to our next meeting."

"Wait, Reuenthal, when's the next one?" Mittermeyer rose to his feet, but Reuenthal turned swiftly and without a moment's hesitation disappeared into the glow of the huge branching chandelier.

Mittermeyer waited for his next meeting with Reuenthal, who came from future.

The "present" Reuenthal is the governor of Heinesen, and Mittermeyer didn't tell him about that night's encounter. Out of a certain unease about the future, he chose to keep the incident a secret to himself.

On October 26, 480 N.I.C., Mittermeyer made a video call to Reuenthal to celebrate his thirty-third birthday. Hanging up the phone, Mittermeyer told his wife that he would go for a walk. Dressed in civilian clothes, he walked to the Fraser Opera House and saw the large poster hanging: "Tristan and Isolde.

He bought one ticket.

After the show, Mittermeyer's palms were sweating. He finally knew the so-called "white sails" and "black sails", but he couldn’t understand it. He remembered the conversation with Reuenthal on the terrace many years ago, at the banquet after the wedding, and his friend was wearing an untidy white shirt.

Reuenthal had taught him how to fold a small boat out of a napkin. He was careless so that he forgot to turn inside out. A black failure, he had made. "White sails or black sails?" Reuenthal asked.

At that time Mittermeyer couldn’t understand. So Reuenthal couldn't wait for an answer either.

Now he finally knew, but neither could he give the answer.

All he could do was looking through his memory time after time at night, catching the anomalous fragments and piecing together the story as it was. In the end he realized that he had already had four encounters with the future Reuenthal. The next, then, would be the last.

Time moved smoothly forward, and before Mittermeyer could figure it out, the Emperor took a journey to the planet planet Uruvasi. Inevitably, the stones of fate slipped into the abyss, in the end, Reuenthal raised a counter-flag.

The last time Mittermeyer met "Reuenthal", he was on the deck of Beowulf.

It was the first time Reuenthal had traveled back in time. He apparently had no idea what was going on until Mittermeyer almost violently dragged him off the ground, pulled him by the collar and punched him in the face.

Reuenthal clearly wanted to punch back. But he also recognized the situation he was in and sneered, "Mittermeyer, I can't believe you captured me on Beowulf somehow."

Mittermeyer said, "December 10th."

Reuenthal asked, "What? Today is December 12th."

Mittermeyer took a deep breath. He said, almost wearily, "You went back in time, Reuenthal."

Reuenthal looked at him with an absurd look in his eyes. "Who was drunk on this 'blood-soaked dream'?"

"You always believe," Mittermeyer said, "you're the one who told me these stories about time travel, oceans, rivers and sails. No matter what, you'll always believe it. Five times, you go back in time for five times."

"Why would I do that, Mittermeyer?" asks Reuenthal playfully. "How can I be sure that this is not one of your attempts to confuse my mind and body, when we are at war?"

"Reuenthal-" said Mittermeyer unbearably, "you are now on my ship. I could turn back at once and deliver you to the Emperor, and beg his mercy to spare your life."

"I'm impressed," Reuenthal said mockingly, "and your heartfelt devotion to the Emperor outweighs your friendship for me."

"You know I am not," Mittermeyer said, but he couldn't hide the pain in his voice, "I would give my life to call back your obsession."

"Then come with me," Reuenthal said, "At least, as far as I know, 'two days into the future,' our army still has the advantage to win. Come back to the future with me, just us, just for us."

"I can't." Reuenthal wasn't surprised when Mittermeyer rebuffed him. He even smiled a little, "Leave it there. You say I go back five times to the past? "

"Yes, it's your first time." And my last, Mittermeyer thought.

"It seems every time I return, you're involved." Reuenthal quickly caught the meaning behind Mittermeyer's words.

"Yes. You always appear somehow and then disappear all at once." Mittermeyer said, "and every time you go back in time, you go into a more forward time. So as not to break causality, I guess."

Reuenthal narrowed his eyes. "So, this is the last time you'll see me." He deliberated over the words.

Mittermeyer opened his mouth. He found himself unable to make any sound.

\--Will we meet again, Reuenthal, after the war between us?

"I'm starting to believe it," Reuenthal said, "Just now, I accelerated Tristan to an almost insane level ...... Bergengrum said I was killing myself, but that doesn't matter." He looked deeply at Mittermeyer, "If going back in time requires that kind of insane speed, I guess I'm crazy enough."

"Anyway ...... is there anything you'd like to say to me, Mittermeyer? As a farewell."

Mittermeyer opened his mouth and shook his head. It was a long time before he heard his own dry voice: "I watched an opera. 'Tristan and Isolde'."

Reuenthal raised his eyebrows, "You want to discuss an opera with me?"

Mittermeyer said, "No. You've taught me how to fold a paper boat, but I got it wrong every time." His mouth didn't listen to the control of his brain, but he went on, "That's not my answer, Reuenthal, I mean-"

"Mittermeyer!" suddenly Reuenthal called to him, "my hand!" He held his hands up in front of him, staring incredulously at them as they faded and became transparent, looking like holograms in intermittent signal.

"Oh God, Reuenthal, don't go-please!" Mittermeyer tried to grasp Reuenthal's fading body, but his hand seemed to reach into a magnetic field, touching only the slightest electric current.

Reuenthal did not speak. His blue-black eyes remained focused on Mittermeyer's body and faded until they were an afterimage. "Ghost of the future," as Reuenthal called himself. He had finally returned to his own future.

That, too, was indeed the last time Mittermeyer met Reuenthal.

* * *

_*TIME TRAVEL is subject to two constraints: conservation of energy, and causality. The energy toappear in the past is only borrowed from the Dirac sea, and since ripples in the Dirac sea propagate inthe negative direction, transport is only into the past. Energy is conserved in the present as long as theobject transported returns with zero time delay, and the principle of causality assures that actions in thepast cannot change the present._

In practice, if you're fast enough, you'll be able to crash the waves on the Dirac Sea.

Specifically, by accelerating the Imperial Army's flagship to 2.5 times its normal travel speed and maintaining that speed for an hour, the waves you crash into will give you enough energy to take you back in time. One at a time is farther than the other, because the waves on the Dirac Sea are irreversible.

The average flagship can't travel at 2.5 times its normal speed for an hour. For one, they don't have enough starting energy; two, it's quite dangerous to do so, and usually at 1.5 times the speed limit the flagship will automatically alert and prevent further acceleration.

But there are exceptions to every rule. Tristan, the flagship of the Imperial Marshal and Governor Heinesen, has a comparable energy supply. At the same time, it had the misfortune and good fortune to have its automatic alarm system destroyed during an engagement, so it could successfully accelerate to 2.5x.

In a word, the Reuenthal did indeed go back in time.

\-- "White sails or black sails?"

When he returned from Mittermeyer's wedding, Reuenthal knew full well that it was the fifth and last time into the past.

There was indeed no time to lose. The defeat of the rebels seemed certain, and the end of the war had been foretold, both by civil strife and by the stern Mittermeyer army.

And he, as commander-in-chief, when defeat was imminent, was thinking not of how to resolve the dilemma and face the future, but of going back to the past again and again to steal the warmth of a long-ago past as a ghost.

It's like falling off a cliff. The dizziness of death and the joy of life before hitting the ground made the fall feel so light, so sweet. He wanted it once, again, and again.

"Accelerate!" He said.

He knew it was pointless, because Mittermeyer had told him long ago that there were only five chances. Still, he couldn't resist the temptation for the sixth time. If Mittermeyer had known what he was thinking, he would have been righteously dissuaded: why try something that was doomed in the end?

Mittermeyer was such a man, but Reuenthal was the opposite. He tasted defeat and death as much as victory and joy, and would rather die in the pursuit.

Tristan accelerated steadily for five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour ...... but then it shook violently. Tristan was struck. The interior of the flagship showed a tendency to crumble, almost to the point of spinning. Reuenthal tried to stand upright, but was pinned down by the fallen command chair. Then a broken ceramic rod ran through his chest as if fated.

One hour.

Broken Tristan, crossing the Sea of Dirac for the sixth time.

* * *

Iserlohn Fortress, 480 I.C.

Late at night, a man.

He was tall, but seemed unable to support himself anymore, and had to hold onto the wall and stumble into an alley. His steps were disheveled, each footprint stained with blood coming from the hole in his chest. But instead of going to the hospital or seeking help from passers-by, he just walked into an alleyway that leads to the famous "Post Phezzan" bar.

The warm light of the bar came along, just like a silent invitation to him. However, the man's pace was getting slower and slower, his blood soaked the entire left side of his body, even in his boot. His outstretched pale fingers slipped off the wall and eventually dropped to his side. The man took one last step forward, then tripped over himself and fell into the corner.

He didn't get up.

The police came quickly. Then came the doctors, but they were too late.

The man was put on a stretcher and the doctor shined a flashlight at his pupils - no response.

The policeman looked down impatiently to confirm the unfortunate man's death. He saw the two irradiated pupils and suddenly took a step back in horror, then spat, "Fucking bastard's eyes."

At the end of the alley, 21-year-old Lieutenant Mittermeyer was about to take a shortcut back to his quarters. The police officer's rude language made him uncomfortable, so Mittermeyer decided to return to the bar and leave through the front door.

He hurriedly turned away, not realizing that it was his first encounter with Reuenthal.

END

* from Ripples in the Dirac Sea


End file.
